My son didn’t invite me to his wedding because he thought I was just an old woman. Now I’m not even sure if he ever needed me in his life.
I still remember that day like it’s all a blur. My sister called me out of the blue, sounding all excited:
“Finally! Your boy’s gone and got married!”
I froze, gripping the phone.
“What?” I barely managed to whisper. “Married? You must be mistaken. He’d have told me. I’m his mother, for heaven’s sake…”
But she wasn’t wrong. Her son had seen photos online—my boy in a sharp suit, a bride in white beside him, flowers everywhere, waiters, music, a proper reception. The caption read, “The happiest day of my life.”
I just sank onto the kitchen floor. The kettle was whistling, pancakes cooling in the pan, and I couldn’t move. My head throbbed with one question: *Why? Why didn’t he even tell me?*
I had him late—thirty-one, which these days is nothing, but back then, the midwives called me an “older mum.” Ten years after he was born, his dad was gone—heart attack at work. Just like that. It was just the two of us. I scraped by, working day and night, denying myself everything so he’d have what he needed. No social life, no breaks—just him.
He grew up, graduated uni, moved into a flat of his own. Lived his life, and I stayed out of it. Sometimes he’d pop round, bring fruit, say everything was fine. I was just glad he was doing alright. Then one day, he brought Emily home—a sweet girl, ten years younger, quiet, always smiling. I liked her. I even thought, *Maybe this is it. Someone to be his family now.*
After they left, I sat at the kitchen table for ages, grinning to myself, imagining grandkids. I was sure—if he introduced her to me, it was serious. And of course, if there was a wedding, he’d invite me.
But I was wrong.
When I rang him, he didn’t pick up. Called back later like nothing had happened. I kept my voice steady:
“Anything you want to tell me?”
He stumbled.
“Oh—you already heard. Yeah, we signed the papers yesterday. Off on honeymoon tomorrow. I meant to swing by…”
And sure enough, half an hour later, he showed up—cake in hand, a bouquet. Kissed my cheek, sat down like it was any other visit.
“Yeah, we had a do. Just kept it small, though. Only mates. You know how it is—loud music, dancing. Would’ve been a bit much for you,” he said, like he was explaining why he didn’t ask me to a BBQ.
“Did Emily’s parents go?” I asked.
“Well… yeah. But they’re not even forty yet.”
Something inside me snapped.
“And I’m sixty. So I don’t fit the vibe, is that it?”
He looked down, quietly eating cake. I stared at him, wondering when we’d become strangers. I wasn’t asking for the party. Didn’t need the rowdy crowd. But why not even the registry office? Why did I have to hear it from my sister?
“We didn’t think,” he said when I asked.
*Didn’t think.* You know what’s worst about those words? It’s not anger or even hurt—it’s the sheer indifference. It just didn’t matter to him. Slipped his mind. Never occurred to him.
And yet, for me, he was everything. Sat up nights when he was feverish. Dragged heavy shopping bags when money was tight. Scrimped, scrubbed, took extra shifts just to make things easier for him. Never let myself break. Not once.
And him? He just… got married. Without me. Didn’t even cross his mind his mum might be hurt. That she’d be sitting alone in a silent flat, flipping through old photos, wondering: *Did he ever really need me?*
Now I sit here thinking—if I hadn’t called, would he have ever told me? Or would he have just carried on, silent, like the wedding never happened, like it wasn’t worth mentioning?
People say kids don’t owe you anything. Fine, they don’t. But is it really normal to forget your own mum on the day they call “the best of your life”?
He left, and the house went dead quiet. I didn’t shout. Didn’t make a scene. Just let it go.
Maybe every parent hits that moment when you realise—your child’s grown up. And there’s no room left for you. I just never thought it’d hurt this much.
